Written for the 2024 NYC Midnight Fiction Writing Challenge. Round 2.
Assignment: to write an 2,000 word (or less) short story in three days that featured the following —
Genre: Drama
Character: Maid
Plot Line: Making Up for Lost Time
By Matt Shaw
Saturday
Pain. Everywhere, pain. Pain in my ears from the birds chirping. Pain from a shoe wedged into my back. Grains of dirt grind into my cheek, pressed against the hardwood floor.
I roll onto my side, queasy. Lay still. Wait. The wave of nausea cruises through me, slows, looks for a parking spot, then moves on. Eyes still closed.
Pushing off the ground, I sit up. This is what mornings feel like.
I look around.
It’s a small house. Somebody somewhere called it a bungalow. Probably told us it was a craftsman. My wife wanted to call it home. That was enough for me.
The counters are littered with bottles. Dirty plates block the sink. There’s one bedroom, with a queen-sized bed covered with unopened mail. I spot three invoices from the funeral home.
The wall phone rings. I ignore it.
My driver’s license says I’m six feet tall, have gray eyes, and a toothy grin. But the bathroom mirror shows bleary eyes, a stooped frame, cracking lips.
Can’t find my toothbrush. A dab of toothpaste on the finger. Rub for five seconds on my gums and teeth.
Now the mouthwash. The bottle promises: 17% alcohol.
I swallow it.
My first drink of the day.
Sunday
Everywhere hurts. Bright sunlight penetrates my closed eyelids.
I swing my feet off the couch and lean forward.
My hand is stained red. There’s a long scratch on my arm. The culprit is on the floor, a spiral notebook with a bent coil. I fought the notebook and the notebook won.
I reach the bathroom.
Toothpaste on the finger. Five seconds.
Mouthwash again. 17% alcohol. Gulp. Breakfast of champions.
The phone rings. I don’t move. It stops. Rings again. The answering machine picks up.
“Thomas? I know you are there. It’s Daniel, your father-in-law. It’s eleven o’clock in the morning. How are you doing? I hope you aren’t drinking. Call me. It’s Daniel.”
I lumber to the counter. There’s a half empty bottle of bourbon. I pick it up.
“He’s not my father-in-law,” I tell the bottle.
Monday
Birds too loud. Sun too bright. Morning too soon.
Toothpaste, finger. Mouthwash, swallowed.
I’m dressed for work in my weekday uniform of black leather walking shoes, black pants, black shirt, and a black raincoat. Mr. Cheerful.
It’s a gray day.
“Man, you smell.” That’s Bernie. He’s my first stop. Bernie lives under the overpass.
“You staying here again tonight?” I have to ask.
“Brother, you didn’t listen to a word I said,” he says. “You stink. You smell like a distillery.”
He’s glaring at me. Sharp blue eyes peering out from a weatherbeaten face. The flaps of his red and black hunting cap folded over his ears. He loves that cap.
“You look like a woodsman with that hat,” I tell him. “A lumberjack. Bernie, the Homeless Lumberjack.”
“That’s really bad, you know? When a homeless guy says you stink.”
I roll my eyes. “See you next week.”
At home, my answering machine blinks.
“Thomas, please call me. Ann and I are worried about you. We haven’t heard from you in weeks. What happened, you know it’s not your fault. Are you drinking? This is your father-in-law.”
“You’re not my father-in-law,” I shout at the answering machine, and pour.
Tuesday
Everything hurts. There’s shattered plastic on the kitchen floor. Pieces of the answering machine. Someone must have thrown it at the wall.
I reach the bathroom. Stooped, puffy, and bleary.
Toothpaste. Mouthwash. Workday uniform.
My official title is Unhoused Persons Liaison and Metrics Specialist. That’s what it says on my business card. Everyone just calls me the Homeless Map Guy.
The job of the Homeless Map Guy is to maintain a count of all the known unhoused individuals and an updated record of all encampments through the city. I’ll spend the week visiting ninety different sites, checking in on the residents, and updating the database. Next week I’ll do it all over again.
Wednesday
On the floor. Nauseous.
A gulp of mouthwash.
The phone rings. There’s no answering machine. It keeps ringing.
Today I’m headed to the city parks, where I will visit fourteen different homeless camps.
Last time I went to the office, my boss pulled me aside. “Listen, Tommy,” he said. “You’ve had a hard time over this last year. Everyone understands why. But—,” He paused, like I was going to say it for him.
I stared back. Didn’t let him off the hook.
“Okay,” he stammered. “You smell like alcohol all the time, it can’t go on. Please focus on getting healthy. Work from home, get this thing taken care of, then we’d love to have you back.”
My golden ticket. Office optional. I haven’t been back for three months. Or is it five?
“Get this thing taken care of.” Yeah, sure thing. Thanks, boss!
Thursday
A pounding wakes me. Ouch. I stumble to the door and open it without checking.
“Thomas,” says Daniel. (He’s not my father-in-law.)
“Daniel.”
He walks past me into the house and stops. His mouth hangs open. He’s speechless.
I see what he’s seeing. In ancient times, our living room was a pleasant space. It was a tidy place of parties and laughter and marriage. Not anymore. Bottles everywhere. Piles of books, papers, dirty laundry. Finger streaks in the dust.
“Thomas,” he says. He walks through the house, looks in every room, shaking his head. “Thomas. I’m going to get you some help.”
Friday
He gets me some help.
I’m counting out a generous cocktail of painkillers when the doorknob rattles. I see an old white hatchback on the curb. A magnetic pink sign: “Maid Service.”
I open the door. The maid has a silvery buzz cut and pink overcoat. She bustles in and drops an enormous leather purse on my couch. “I’m Mrs. Smith. I’ll be taking care of the house now. Okay, bye-bye.”
My final stop of the week is behind motel row. On the freeway side of town, the line of eight motels range from dingy and dingiest. Local panhandlers try collecting enough for a night’s stay. But eighty bucks a night, just for lodging, can be hard to maintain. Most of them camp in the woods out back half the time.
“It’s the Map Guy,” I call out as I push into the woods. “Hello?”
“Hey man.” I hear a thin voice. Behind a wall of kudzu, I stumble into a clearing of tarps and cardboard. Three people—a man and two women—sit on camp chairs. The woman speaking is Jessie. I’ve seen her around a lot. “This is my cousin Lucy and her friend Derek,” she says. Lucy waves. Derek grunts.
One of the tent doors hangs open. Inside is a pile of ragged stuffed animals and beanie babies. “You going to be staying here for a while?” I ask them.
“What’s it to you?” Derek glares.
“Hey, be nice. This is the Map Guy.” Jessie snaps at him. “He’s one of the good ones. Yes, we are.”
The maid’s hatchback is still in front of the house. The living room is unrecognizable. Blankets are neatly draped, pillows placed with precision. Mrs. Smith is at the kitchen sink.
I see empty bottles that shouldn’t be empty. She’s pouring my booze down the drain.
“What are you doing?” I yell. Lunging, I wrench a bottle of rye out of her hands.
“Helping you,” she says.
“Okay,” I say, clutching the rescued bottle to my chest. “But I’ll just get more.”
Except for some reason I don’t get more.
Saturday
I find a new toothbrush in the bathroom. So I brush my teeth.
My mouthwash is missing. The replacement bottle is brightly labeled “No Alcohol.”
A thump on the door. Newspaper.
Another thump. The maid lets herself in. This time she’s not alone. There’s a younger woman with her. “This is Susan, my niece.”
“Hi,” Susan waves.
I watch them work. Susan plugs in a new answering machine. The maid is pawing through the kitchen. Swinging open cupboards, peering behind dishes, digging through the pantry. She dusts off a coffee maker. Susan pages through the answering machine instruction manual. The morning light catches her hair. She looks up and smiles at me.
“Coffee,” Susan says later and sets a steaming mug down next to me.
“Thank you.” We both smile.
On their way out, the maid hands me the envelopes from the funeral home.
“Deal with these,” she says.
For a long time, I sit and do nothing. I see nothing. The envelopes languish in my hands.
Then it’s all there. Our years together. Dreams for the future. The anniversary dinner. I was too drunk to drive home. She’s behind the wheel. The sudden darting deer. Hospitals. The funeral. Grief and rage. A haze of mornings and evenings, working and drinking. Sliding backwards. Forgotten weeks and missing months, so much lost time.
“Okay. I’ll face you now,” I say and open the first envelope.
Sunday
Toothbrush. Mouthwash. Coffee. Newspaper.
“My aunt asked me to drop these off.” Susan is on the stoop with a bouquet of tulips. “She said to tell you to put them in water right away.”
Monday
“Man, you are looking good today!” Bernie, the Homeless Lumberjack, smiles at me. “You smell good too.”
The maid is waiting for me when I get home. She’s alone this time. “You can have Bob’s old record player.”
“I don’t have records,” I tell her.
Tuesday
When I get to the first park, a fire truck is pulling away. Officer Murphy is drinking coffee from a styrofoam cup and staring at a burned out cluster of trees. He waves me over.
There was a fight last night between two homeless guys. Dickie accused Bubba of stealing his stash of weed. Bubba took a swing. They tussled. A flaming log got kicked toward the tents. Everything burned. Including the stash, I’d imagine.
“New rule. No more campfires,” Murphy informs me. “Tell your people.”
So I spread the word.
My answering machine works. Two messages are flashing when I get home.
One from Daniel, expected.
One from Susan, not expected.
Wednesday
The usual. Hygiene. Coffee. Newspaper. I’ve now added a morning walk.
The maid arrives as I’m leaving. “I heard you have plans today,” she teases.
I do have plans. At lunchtime, I drive to the bagel shop. Susan is waiting for me outside. She is staring up at an old oak tree.
“Look at that,” she says, grasping my arm. “They’re dancing.” I look up. A dozen squirrels are racing through the branches, playing together—climbing, jumping, climbing again. A flurry of movement as they laugh and chirp.
Thursday
I’m sipping coffee at the kitchen table. Done with the newspaper. Thinking I should get slippers. And a bathrobe. Pajama bottoms. A special uniform for my mornings, which keep getting longer.
The phone rings. I snatch it up.
“Thomas, it’s Daniel.”
“Good morning, Daniel. How are you and Ann?”
Friday
“Fresh basil is my secret ingredient,” says Ann.
My kitchen smells like tomatoes. We’re making dinner. Ann hovers over a pot, stirring and tasting her homemade sauce.
Susan and Daniel study the pile of records he brought. Mostly jazz. “You haven’t heard of Art Blakey?” He’s incredulous.
We drift into the living room. Susan puts on the Dave Brubeck Quartet. The record catches and the drums swish. Susan sways and snaps her fingers. “Let’s dance,” she says.
I’m rooted for a moment. The piano cuts in, then the bass. I haven’t danced for so long. The alto saxophone calls out to me. Says to start moving. I haven’t moved for so long. It calls again. And then I’m out there, moving.
“How do you dance to jazz?” I shake my arms.
“Just groove with it, daddy-o,” Daniel says. He winks at me. I nod back.
So I groove with it: elbows flapping, knees knocking. Twist. Shout. Jump. Jive. Susan is laughing. We are all laughing. I am dancing and moving and living again.